


Uroboros

by Steangine



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst, Bottom Dante (Devil May Cry), Bottom Sparda (Devil May Cry), M/M, What if?, depresso
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22909633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steangine/pseuds/Steangine
Summary: The snake eats its tail, everything comes back as it was before, nothing ever really changes.[Sparda/Mundus ; Vergil/Dante ; what if?]
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry), Mundus/Sparda (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 99





	Uroboros

Humans are ephemeral.

Mundus remembers those words but cannot recall who he heard them from. They echo into his ears as he lays his eyes on the gravestone sprouting from the ground, a flower for the dead. How is stupid of them, humans, enclosing the dead bodies of those they know as a memento to mourn them. Pointless, Mundus thinks, yet doesn’t speak his thoughts.

He has never agreed with Sparda leaving hell. He has never agreed with him starting a new life with the pretense of being human. He has never agreed with him finding a human partner and mating with her as he would do with a demon. Yet, he respected his choice, let him do as he pleased and covered his love for humans that made him live away from his kin. That was the least Mundus could do to extinguish the debt he had with Sparda. The least he could do to help his only friend.

“It’s time for you to come home.”

Sparda raises his head. Mundus doesn’t like his human appearance and doesn’t even try hiding the disappointment he’s felt in finding him wearing that fake skin, instead of showing his true ( _beautiful_ ) self. His human face is battered, it brings the signs of tiredness and grief: swollen eyes sinking into dark circles, deep wrinkles carving the dull skin. Sparda looks weak, but he isn’t. Mundus knows it, and the idea he could present himself in such a disgraceful way disgust him to the guts. To what extents humanity has ruined the great warrior whose abilities exceeds those of the Prince of Darkness?

“I am home.”

Sparda’s voice slightly flickers on the last word, hiding a feeling Mundus cannot understand. He doesn’t even try to grasp the slightest ray of enlightenment which could lead him to a vague recognition of what Sparda has done. Mundus silently judges him.

“A grave?” He feels a demonic joy as the words flow out of his mouth. The human is dead, even the great Sparda can’t do anything against death, and he has no more reasons to walk the same path as the deplorable humans. However, his voice remains unfathomable, devoid of any trace of emotion. “Or an empty manor on a hill? Are you planning on enshrining yourself in there?”

Mundus can’t help but feel disgusted as Sparda gets up and pats his sleeves and pants from the dust of the grass: for a handful of seconds, the greatest of the demons looked like a common human. If it wasn’t Sparda, if it wasn’t him, Mundus would leave him be, or but his head in one chop to clear the regal lineage from such a deplorable demon. How much has he fallen, following the frivolous carnal desire for a human? How much time would pass before Sparda would fall for another human, then another and another, until he is no demon anymore?

If he had to witness the disgrace Sparda was plowing himself into, Mundus would rather put an end to his life with his own hands. The current Demon Queen still has faith in him and she believes Sparda is just acting on a whim, that humans are his current toys and he would get tired of them in few decades, maybe a century.

But he won’t.

Mundus understands it when Sparda stands in front of him, eyes to eyes, and smiles.

“Come with me. I have something to show you.”

There’s something which keeps Sparda tied to that place, an invisible strength which gravitates around that manor and he doesn’t want to escape its coils. Sparda lets the memory of the dead human rock him into the delusion he still has some reason to stay there, that is what Mundus thinks as he doesn’t pay attention to the elegant stairs, broad rooms and tacky furniture. At least, the taste Sparda had when living in Hell, where he belonged to, didn’t disappear after he abandoned ~~him~~ them.

Sparda opens a door. It’s dark inside. Thick curtains cover the windows, unlike the rest of the manor which glimmers with the spring sun filtrating through the glass. There is a cradle, and the whole world collapses on Mundus.

It shows on his face, because Sparda is smiling, but the curve of his mouth his harsh and bitter.

“I know what you are thinking now.”

Flames of rage devour Mundus at those words. He has enough strength to keep his rage at bay, but he snorts too loudly and his hands twitch. Sparda knows nothing, but here it shows again his arrogance which lead him to believe he could just walk away from his people and living as a human. And breeding one to give birth to an abomination. Sparda knows nothing, nor of him nor of the consequences of his act, yet he still acts as he pleases. Mundus now recalls why he has always despised him when they were young, and why he has always stared at his back with eyes burning of feelings for which no words existed to give a proper explanation. And Sparda has never turned, he has always walked forward.

“You don’t.” He snaps. “What have you done?”

It’s a reprimand disguised as a question. Mundus makes sure each word has enough poison to pierce through the shield of indifference. Of course, it’s useless. His words cannot go through Sparda’s self-confidence as they cannot kill the baby in the cradle.

“I’ve chosen a human woman as my companion.”

Such a naïve reply, the explanation of the adult to a child. Mundus has always felt a not-so-hidden desire of hurting Sparda and dethroning him from his pedestal of self-proclaimed greatness, but he cannot remember he’s ever seen black under the intense throb of murderous intent coming from his soul. One second of mindless pitch black, he blinks, and sees Sparda again. Maybe a slap in the face to make his ridicule monocle fall would do. Mundus decides not to.

“I know.” He sounds impatient, he is livid. “You bred with her.”

“We made love.”

“You bred with her.” He repeated. “And let her give birth to a bastard.”

The deep red glimmer into Sparda’s eyes erase his human pretention. Just for an instant, but it’s enough for Mundus; he clings to that glimmer as the desperate proof that Sparda can try for his whole life, but he would never belong to the human world.

“This is where you are wrong, my friend.” His voice is sweet, too sweet for a demon, disgustingly human. Sparda raises the see-through curtain covering the cradle and waits for Mundus to get closer.

Mundus is tempted to leave, walking back to Hell without giving Sparda the satisfaction of dancing to the rhythm of his waltz. However, curiosity crawls in the hidden depth of his stomach, tingling his desire to take some steps forward and see what abomination has born from such union. If he leaves now, Mundus is sure of that, he won’t stop thinking about what that child could be, resulting once again in Sparda’s victory.

How ironic. No matter what Mundus chooses, he will always be one step behind Sparda and lose at his whims. It has always been like that, a burden that has been clinging around his neck since they met and tightened its grip every day, every hour, every minute: Mundus has never been able to fully stand against Sparda.

He walks to the cradle.

And when he sees what’s inside, he doesn’t know what to do.

“Two.” He exhales in surprise. “They are two.”

Two hybrids, curled one next to the other in a clumsy hug, are sleeping, unaware that their very existence is a threat to their own lives and a sword swinging on their father’s head. They had nothing of a demon, both had the features of humans, but so small they looked as fragile as glass; one breath and they would die, Mundus reflects – and I would die, he reminds to himself: there is no way Sparda wouldn’t chase him to the Hell’s ends to erase him from existence.

“The one with the blue pajamas is Vergil. The one in red is Dante.” What a useless information, Mundus thinks but doesn’t say it, he lets Sparda speak instead. “You know, Eva has chosen their names. I wanted to name them Castor and Pollux, like our old comra–”

“What do you want to do now?”

Mundus forces himself to look away from the twins: the more he stares at them, the more he finds similarities with Sparda and with _her_ , that woman, that human. He cannot stand that.

Sparda frowns. “What?”

“What are your intentions with… these?”

“These…” Sparda’s voice lost a notch, still calm but severe. “…are my sons. Of course, I’ll raise them here.”

“In the human world.” Sparda nods. “Are you aware, Sparda, that I must report this to the Queen? Or do you think everything will go silent only because you want it?”

What bothers Mundus the most, is that Sparda doesn’t look shocked the slightest bit. “If you think you should do it, I don’t see why I should stop you.” But the final blow is his indifference: whatever he will do, nothing will change. In Sparda’s plans, Mundus isn’t even a variable he has taken into consideration, no matter his acts or decisions, he is one like the other millions.

Mundus looks at him, searching for anything that would foreshadow something of his plans – or even a sign that his presence there isn’t just a pleasant interference Sparda will soon forget. What he sees is a father smiling at his sons as he covers the cradle again.

“Then, I bid you farewell.”

“Oh.” Sparda raises his head. “Aren’t you staying for dinner?”

But Mundus is already heading to Hell, where Sparda, the Prince painfully knows it, doesn’t belong anymore.

***

When Mundus comes back, Dante and Vergil are slightly bigger than he remembered and they have just started moving their first steps on their legs. That is how Sparda described it, but the red baby, fell on his rear for three times before crawling to the small ball he was chasing, and the blue baby is standing on his trembling legs with the chubby hands clinging onto the leg of the table. Little, pitiful, weak creatures who cannot defend themselves. Mundus shouldn’t give them any attention for how they are insignificant, yet he keeps glancing at the two babies, because he still cannot believe Sparda gave up everything he had in the underworld for… _those_.

“Sorry, it took some time.”

Sparda left him alone in that room with his children because he insisted for him to try some human food. Instead of leaving, Mundus sat down on one of the comfy red velvet armchairs, crossed his legs and observed the two little half-bloods interacting with the environment kept safe for them: the sharp angles of the furniture and walls are covered in a soft material to prevent any unpleasant accident.

“Can’t they regenerate?”

Mundus questions Sparda while he puts on the table a teapot, two cups and a three-tiered tray filled with food Mundus has never seen – but the only times he has ever gone on the human world was to convince Sparda to desist from his folly to spend his life with a human woman, and all he has seen is the blue sky and the green landscape. Colored, sweet-flavored, sprinkled: there is an evident human allure from that display.

“Sure they can.” Sparda pours the tea and serves the sugar at his pleasure, then puts the cup near Mundus. “But when they get hurt they cry a lot, so I’d rather avoid it for a while.”

“They must learn from this age.”

“They’re still young and with plenty of time to learn what pain is.”

“And to endure it?”

Sparda looks at him and smiles. “I hope there will be no need.”

Mundus cannot read Sparda. He doesn’t know if he is ignoring what the future was lurking for him, the one who soon would receive the label of traitor – he doesn’t know if Sparda actually cares of everything he was to anyone in hell, ~~to him~~ , or if he has ever cared. The thought eating his guts, that is hidden inside him and never leaves, is about to crawl deep into his mind to plant its seed once again and let them sprout in countless roots which would take their sweet time to leave, when Mundus feels something tugging on his left leg.

He lowers his eyes and catches sight of the baby boy in red, Dante, who decided his leg was the right spot to use as a prop to try standing up again. The instinct of kicking him away is kept at bay by the threat Sparda poses to him and starting a fight for such a trivial being would be a shame for his pride.

“Dante, what are you doing?”

Sparda is fast at getting up and taking his son before he starts his climb. Probably that isn’t what the boy expected, because he starts moving all his limbs and emitting small screeches of disappointment. And there, Mundus feels a twisted joy in seeing Sparda struggling to calm him down: Dante doesn’t want to stay still and quiet leaning on his father’s shoulder, nor he wants to stay into his arms. Sparda understand it and puts him down; as soon as he does, the boy crawls again towards Mundus.

“Vergil, come here.”

The other boy happily welcomes the embrace of his father and puts the head against his chest before Sparda can help him adjusting his position. Dante tugs again at the cloth of Mundus’ trousers.

“Dante.” Sparda grabs him from the pajamas and holds him tight into the arm to keep him as still as he can. “Calm down, won’t you?”

“Quite the rebellious one, isn’t he?” Mundus stands up.

“Where are you going? And the tea? The sweets?”

“I have some business to attend in the underworld. I cannot stay away for too long.”

That’s a lie. Mundus usually disappears from weeks, even months, taking some time to spend on his own, recollect thoughts and enhance his strength and skills. Nobody has ever looked for him, for that is one of his habits. Of course, Sparda doesn’t know, such is the little attention he has ever paid to him.

“It must be difficult, being the right-hand man of the Queen.”

“I am busy, yes.” Mundus looks at him, his eyes flashes quickly to the children (the blue one is on his way to the embrace of the slumber). “I am occupying the role which was entitled to you.”

“But I chose what I wanted to do.” The nice and carefree tone disappears, Sparda is serious. “Did you, Mundus?”

“Of course I did.”

On his way back to hell, Mundus runs across a poor human who got lost. Nobody will ever come close to realize what happened to his body and soul after he faced the unfair wrath of the Prince of Darkness.

***

“The Queen wants you to have these.”

Two amulets shining of bloody red, mounted in the metal taken from the deepest cave in hell. Nothing can destroy those keys, nor the Queen, nor Sparda.

When the Queen ordered Mundus to take the two halves of the key to open the border between the demon and human world and bring them to Sparda, he understood the implications of her intention, but couldn’t soothe his anger in any way.

“Why me?”

Yes, why you? Mundus thinks it and doesn’t know if it shows on his face. “Because you are still the one she trusts the most, despite everything.”

Sparda has never shown the thirst for power which led Mundus and Argosax to the positions they are in now, yet he was the strongest among the three and, after, all, he could take on the Queen and bring her down from her throne if he only wanted to. That is the reason the keys are both in his hands now, that is the reason why she didn’t trust Mundus enough. That humiliation burns deep inside his guts.

“Well, I guess it can’t be helped.” Sparda doesn’t look happy, but he takes the amulets and shoves them in the pocket of his coat. He is aware of the responsibility of being the keeper of the key of the door between the two worlds. “Not the best of the days, today.”

Quite a confusing comment. Mundus tilts his head, but the explanation comes before he could ask anything – if he ever decided to. A loud desperate cry explodes in the distance from inside the manor.

“He woke up again.”

Sparda is worried. Mundus grasps bits of his state of mind from his voice and how he walks away in a hurry. He could leave now, but he follows Sparda instead.

The kids are sleeping in two separate cradles.

“You separated them.”

As Sparda takes Dante, Vergil’s cries soon followed his brother’s, mixing their voices in a mournful litany. Sparda embraces him as well, without any clue on how to calm them down. They keep crying.

“Dante is sick and keeps waking up because of the fever.”

“Human blood weakened their demon heritage.”

Sparda glares at him, a little revenge which tastes like the sweetest of the victories. Mundus gets closer and he feels it, he feels how Sparda is finally seeing him and not just giving him an empty look.

“I won’t hurt them.” It’s funny how Mundus has to state it, and still Sparda doesn’t trust him. He is enjoying his new status as a potential treat – his new status as _something_ concerning Sparda in some way.

“They aren’t demons, Mundus.”

Sparda follows with his eyes the fingers touching Dante’s burning forehead. Mundus knows that Sparda would be faster than him, and his whole arm would be gone if he will ever try to hurt the baby.

“They aren’t human either, Sparda.” The knuckles gently glide on the skin, traces the round shape of Dante’s visage to his cheek. “You should keep that in mind.”

The cries descend in the void of a peaceful sleep. Dante stops and Vergil, as if he is feeling his brother is suffering no more, silences as well, but his eyes are wide opened.

Sparda is glaring at Mundus.

“And you should also remember you are not a human, Sparda, you are a demon. As such, you should be able to use your powers to put at ease your children.” Mundus gives him his back. “Take care of the amulets. Everyone believes the Queen entrusted them to me, so don’t put them around your neck to show them off. Just because the Queen lets you wander in the human world as you please, it doesn’t mean all demons agree with her judgement.”

He walks outside the room and disappears in the shadows of the manor.

***

Dante and Vergil haven’t seen many other people except their father and the few loyal human servants working at the manor. With the natural exception of Sparda, they have only met and interacted with humans until the day Dante found more interesting the wobbling flight of a butterfly than his stuffed toy.

Three humans, but nobody notices when Dante stops trying to convince his stuffed toy to go fetch the ball and stands up to silently follow the butterfly. He tends his arms in the attempt of grabbing it, but the butterfly moves higher, and Dante looks up at the sky, following it with increasing curiosity. But, all of a sudden, he smashes against an obstacle he didn’t see and falls back.

He doesn’t cry (even if he is a crybaby, more than Vergil) and stares at the one he bumped into. All dressed in white, surrounded by a halo of pure feathered wings, long white thin hair waving in the wind, two pointy ears and scarlet eyes, the third closed on his forehead.

“A fairy!” Dante jumps back on his feet in a sprout of joy.

Mundus clearly hears Sparda chuckling from somewhere. Then he appears. “Dante, I told you to stay close to the servants.” His voice shows anything but a sweet care.

Sparda hasn’t changed, and neither has Mundus. However, his child grew, steady on his feet, taller, but still defenseless, an easy prey. Mundus believes the other one is a weakling as well.

“Daddy!”

The kid sure is fast at leaping into Sparda’s arms, Mundus must admit the dash was quite good.

“What brings you here, Mundus? It’s been a while since the last time.”

“It’s been only three years.” Mundus sighs. “I see you got used to the humans’ perception of time.”

“Anything important happened in the underworld?” As he speaks, Sparda walks back to the manor.

Mundus glances at him and, inevitably, he meets the kid’s eyes. He is holding onto his father’s shoulders and looking back at him, the Prince of Darkness, in a silent curious contemplation. Mundus ignores him.

“The Queen promised Argosax the sovereignty on a small island in the human world.” He catches a small reaction coming from Sparda, his posture is more rigid, and this puts a smile on Mundus’ lips. “It is called Dumary.”

“Oh, really? I remember she promised you something similar. How was it called again?”

“Mallet Island. A boring lair of worshippers of evil.”

He slayed them all as he arrived there. Mundus uses Mallet Island as his serene place, where he can seek refuge and rest both his body and mind.

“Oh, then you received it.”

“You still were one of us when she gave it to me.”

Of course, Sparda doesn’t remember. Mundus isn’t that surprised.

“You want to stay for dinner?”

He changes topic, and the kid is still staring at him. Mundus can sense the feeling of wonder coming from the small creature, as he knows that if he walked too close to him, Dante would try to grab his hair or feathers.

“I do not need human food.”

“Ah, but we have the filet mignon with a red wine sauce.”

Mundus has no idea what any of those things are. Part of him is yelling into his head to leave as soon as possible and that going there was a bad idea to being with. But another part, the most stubborn, is curious on peeking something more into the life Sparda is leading now as a miserable human – and keeping an eye on his children, the only weakness he has ever shown since when they met.

“I accept the invitation.”

The table is squared, Mundus is sitting in front of Sparda and the kids are at his sides. Both are staring at him with different eyes: Dante doesn’t hide his desire of touching him, the other kid, Vergil, is wary of him. If Mundus had to bet, the blue boy has more chances of survival than the red one.

Human food has a strange taste, less intense than what Mundus is used to, but in a single mouthful it encloses so many different flavors that it actually baffles him. He cannot decide if it’s good or not.

Dante is dangling his legs, Mundus feels the air swaying from him. “You’re not a fairy?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Vergil scoffs at Dante. “He is a demon, Dante.” From the little Mundus has witnessed, Vergil robbed his twin from all the elegance Sparda gave them through his blood. Dante embodies his carefree attitude.

“A fairy demon?”

“No!” Vergil slightly raises his voice. “Just a demon! Like dad, like me and like you! He is nothing special!”

So jealous, so human. Mundus isn’t shutting their mouth only because Sparda is there – and it bothers him to such high extents that Sparda still has such an influence on his actions, that he regrets he decided to stay there and only wants to leave. He is disappointed, he is angry at all his actions, yet, he is still holding onto that thin thread connecting them. But maybe it is a one-way effort.

“Not really like us, Vergil. He is the Prince of Darkness.” Sparda comments. “He commands half of hell under the concession of the Queen.”

“The half your father had to take care of.”

Mundus casually throws those words, and the kids are too young to understand any implication of what he has just said. By the time the dessert arrives, both have already forgotten any discourse on queens, princes and hell.

***

Five years are a handful of minutes for demons, but everything for humans. The children are running fast towards their decay: they are eight years old and their heads reach Mundus’ stomach already.

“Mundus!”

Considering how little the brains of humans are, and the scant number of times they met, Mundus is genuinely surprised when Dante runs at him and stops mere centimeters from him – he was almost afraid he would have jumped at him like he saw him doing with his father back then. He is happy, his grin goes from side to side, and Mundus fails to understand where that joy comes from.

A bit further, Vergil is sending death threats at him through the book he was reading right before Mundus arrived. “Dante.” He stands up. “Let’s practice with the swords.” That sounded like an order, harsh and severe.

The _swords_ are wooden replica left at the feet of the tree where Vergil found shelter to finish his book, before Dante went to bother him. Vergil had no intention to bend to his brother’s pleas to fight each other, at least until Mundus showed up and Dante –well– Dante turned his attention away so easily.

“I don’t want to.” Those words are each a stab in Vergil’s ~~heart~~ pride. “What are you doing here?”

“Where’s your father?”

“Uhm, somewhere inside?” Dante shrugs and doesn’t look away from him.

If Dante was too young to know how to properly make an interaction work and continue –he won’t be able as an adult as well–, Mundus is too much a demon to know either. So, they look at each other in silence, until Dante’s fidgeting explodes in a tiny jolt.

“Is that your demonic form?”

“One of them.”

The idea there could be more than one shape he could take, seemed to put into the admiration jar one more point.

“May I see the others?”

“If you want to die.” Mundus casually throws the answer as he glances towards Vergil. The glare is still there. His attention is drawn to the swords behind him. “Do you fight with those… weapons?” He finds difficult addressing at those things using that term.

“Yes. Dad is teaching us.”

An idea flashes into his mind, silly and interesting.

“Your father is the best swordsman among demons. You could never match him.”

Dante throws the right arm up above himself to measure the height. “When I’ll be as tall as dad, I’ll be stronger than him!” He declares. “I’m better than Vergil now.”

“That is a lie, and you know it, Dante.” Vergil’s frown is so deep that his eyebrows are almost uniting in a single one. “I am stronger than you.”

As a very well-honed mean of reply, Dante sticks his tongue out at his brother.

Mundus smiles. “You want to see my others demonic forms, don’t you?”

It’s so easy stealing Dante’s attention that is almost boring witnessing Vergil’s annoyed reaction. Almost. They are kids, but Mundus is feeling a vague pleasure in toying around with them.

“I want to! Yes!” He throws the arm in the air again.

“Very well then, take your sword. I give you thirty minutes. If you manage to touch me even once, I’ll show you.”

The kid’s eyes are burning in amaze. “Okay!” He doesn’t even contemplate the possibility of what could happen if he’ll lose, because probably he cannot fully process the true meaning of a loss and its consequences.

Vergil has his sword in hand too. “If I can touch you…” He speaks slowly, the knuckles of the hand gripping the sword turned white from the effort. “…you will stop coming here.” The poison dropping from his voice isn’t surprising at all.

“Agreed then.”

The amulets are floating in a purple sphere of energy. Sparda is capable of locking them temporarily, but he knows that’s a spell he should replenish each day to keep the shield around them. He will find a solution in the old books, or will look for some more books if necessary. As a swordsman and a weapon crafter, he has no equals, but barriers and locks has always been his weak point: he only knew how to raise unbreakable obstacles through living sacrifices, but that would be the last resort in case of danger. He hopes it won’t escalate that far.

He is leafing through a book he found some centuries before in an old castle in Southern Europe when a familiar shock streams through the nerves of his body. The demon he hides behind the human façade remembers that feeling, and for a second his features blur in a purple halo and he sees the reflection of his demon face on the glass of wine. He closes his eyes, inhales a deep breath. He is human again.

Sudden and unexpected, he almost lost control, and he knows why.

Sparda dashes outside and, in a whistle of wind, he is shielding Mundus from the poor assault of his children. He grabs them from the collar of their shirts and clamps both in a powerful hug.

“Hey, are you attacking a guest?”

And in an instant, the demon blood boiling into their veins for the thirst of winning the battle goes back to sleep. Dante and Vergil are again two lively children who aren’t aware that they were about to take the first step in awakening their inner demon.

“Dad!” They yell in one voice.

Vergil, who usually is calm and respect his father, throws kicks at him. “Let-me-go! I was about to get him!”

Mundus shakes his head. “I thought you were the one who said it is rude to interrupt a duel.”

“Oh, this wasn’t a duel.” Sparda is smiling, but his eyes could split Mundus in two in a single cold glare. “Just a game.” Warmth and kindness come back to his face as he turns to his children. “And it’s time for your homework.”

Dante’s _“ Whaaaaat?”_ was too overdramatic to be taken seriously, but it took two maids and the promise from his father that he would train them some more if they behaved to make him (and Vergil) go.

The maids, Mundus notices, didn’t flinch in seeing him.

“You casted a spell on them.”

“On the area.” Sparda explains with a plain voice. “I doubt you came here just to play with my children.”

Mundus doesn’t remember Sparda has ever looked at him so intensely, really seeing him and not just casually welcoming him into his visual field. It took one dead woman and two half-breed brats to achieve what Mundus has been chasing for centuries.

“I just happened to run into them.” He cut to the chase. “Have you put the barrier?”

“Not a permanent one.”

“When it comes to magic, you are only good with human sacrifices.”

It’s ironic how the demon who loves the humans the most, is also the one who knows the best how to sacrifice their bodies and soul for superior achievements. Mundus is smiling, to Sparda’s annoyance.

“I’ll create a barrier using your power. That’s for the Queen.” He hurries to add. For some reason, he doesn’t want Sparda to believe he is inclined to make him a favor.

“I’ll find a way.”

Sparda turns around to leave.

“I think I didn’t explain myself.” Mundus teleports in front of him; he could do it only because it was a short distance, the magic in the area doesn’t allow him to move further into the house using that technique. “I won’t leave until I know the key is safe.”

“My word isn’t enough then.”

“I do not trust you on this, Sparda.” There is something odd in how Sparda looks at him, something new that Mundus cannot name, let alone explain. He just wants to leave and go back to the solitary confinement of Mallet Island. “If you don’t want, I’ll tell the Queen, but this means she will come–”

“Alright.” Sparda gives up. “Put the barrier and leave.”

That is the first time Sparda takes him into consideration so much to consider him a threat – a treat to the human growth of his children, but a threat nonetheless. Mundus cannot suppress the fierce joy pounding into his chest.

***

Dante and Vergil entered what humans call teenage. Mundus has never been too much interested in human stages of life, because the span of their lives is merely a little part of what a demon of his level could live. So, he doesn’t know the implications of being children, the harsh transition to become teenagers and the difficult path to adulthood. He has always seen the humans as a worthless whole, not single entities which may differ one from the other.

When he goes back to the mansion, he finds that Vergil grew up more similar to Sparda, almost as tall as him, and there is not any reason Dante followed a different path. Vergil has a nice look, filled with a natural hatred which puts him a step closer to his demonic heritage.

“You haven’t been invited.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

“If you are, then I suppose there’s no need I should tell you to leave.”

“There is an urgent matter I must discuss with your father.”

Vergil doesn’t like him, but Mundus likes him. The light of hatred inside his eyes is more of a demon than of a human; that boy represented a little failure in Sparda’s perfect plan of raising two humans born from his seed.

“I will tell him you are looking for–”

“I think you didn’t understand boy.” Mundus slightly raises his voice. “I am not here for personal pleasure. Whenever I came, it was for official matters, and I am the legato.”

Vergil isn’t scared of his stance, nor of his voice. “I do not care why you are here.”

Mundus smiles. He is beautiful, Vergil must admit it – and he feels a growing rage devouring his insides because probably Dante would think the same. Last time they met him they were kids; Dante was enchanted by that heavenly presence, and he didn’t stop talking for a whole week about how Mundus looked like a beautiful fairy, a beautiful angel, like those from the book. Dante is somewhere in the woods, spending time on his own because Vergil wouldn’t give him the slightest attention; Vergil regrets he choose books over his brother once again.

What if Mundus met him while going back? Alone, the two of them.

Vergil gulps down the irritation. “Father is in his personal room. A maid can get you there.”

“I already know where he is.” Mundus walks past him. “You look a lot like your brother.” It is so easy to provoke young creatures but doing it with the child of Sparda has a special flavor.

Vergil turns around, his face stunned. He cannot see Mundus’ smirk, but he feels it.

Dante is sleeping under a tree. When Vergil ignored his tantrum to drag him outside and spar, he entered the woods, like always. It’s been since they were eleven that Vergil stopped chasing him, and now Vergil regrets it for the first time.

His brother isn’t wearing anything but a pair of shorts. He is showing his nice slender legs, his strong chest, exposing his pale neck. The summer heat has created a thin veil of sweat drops on his tender skin. _Did Mundus see him like this?_ The idea makes Vergil’s blood boil. He stares as his brother. Dante sometimes looks younger than him; a carefree spirit, his lighter reflection which keeps him from drowning in misery. Maybe he tends too much to give him for granted.

“What do you want, Vergil?” Even with his eyes closed, Dante recognized him. “Now you are in the right mood?” He gives him his back. “Well, I’m not.”

Dante isn’t angry at Vergil, but he is pissed at his attitude. Vergil hardly gave him any attention, unless he wanted a partner to train; books always before Dante, their father always before his little brother. When he was younger, Dante thirsted for the slightest attention Vergil gave him, but, as he grew up, he has learnt how to pretend he wasn’t excessively happy whenever Vergil turned his gaze at him.

Vergil hugs him from behind, his body pressed against Dante. They’re alone, in their little comfortable corner of world, it’s real, Vergil feels it. His hands touch Dante’s strong thighs and slip under the shorts.

“Dad is probably looking for me. I didn’t finish my homework.” Dante turns his head to give him a quick kiss on the lips and grabs his wrist. “What if he finds you with your dick inside me?”

Vergil shakes off the hand around his wrist. “He is busy now.” He mutters into his ear as he shoves the hand back between his legs.

“You know he is strict.”

“There is a visitor. He won’t bother us.”

Vergil only wants to put Dante in the right mood, but all he does is diverting his attention elsewhere, to the very being that he didn’t want to cross his mind. Dante’s expression changes, he enlightens, and jealousy eats Vergil from within.

“Mundus. Is he here?”

Vergil frowns. “Didn’t you meet him?”

“No.” Dante wriggles away from Vergil’s arms and stands up adjusting his shorts.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll fight him.”

Dante climbs the grassy slope with huge strides (he doesn’t know yet Sparda will forbid him crossing his sword with Mundus). Vergil can just follow him and fight the painful arousal he cannot satisfy the way he wants. His hatred for Mundus sticks the roots a bit deeper in his heart.

“Your children are very close to each other.”

Mundus is observing Dante and Vergil from the window. The boys are sparring like humans, pouring the same intensity of a demon. It is a wild concept, but it works for them. Dante wanted to interrupt the meeting, but Sparda sent him away with his brother. Fighting to vent out their frustration, not different from what a demon would do.

“They are brothers. It’s natural.”

“I guess it’s normal among humans as well.

“What?”

Mundus smirks. “Looking at each other in that way.”

Sparda gives a small cough. “You came here to check on the key. What is holding you now?”

Whenever Mundus talks about his children, Sparda tries to change topic, as if he doesn’t want his words ( _insinuations_ ) touching them in any way.

“I thought you would challenge Argosax for that island.”

“Is that all? Since when are you interested in what I do?”

Always. Mundus swallows back the answer and shakes his head. “Since when the Queen is. As simple as that.”

Challenging Argosax would mean Sparda putting on the line the tranquil life he built with his children, shielded from the looming presence of the underworld. Sparda showed the hypocrisy in his _love_ for humanity: he pities them, but they aren’t worth losing what remained of the whore he fucked.

“You can tell the Queen I have no intention in challenging Argosax. As simple as that.”

“Very good then.” Mundus gets away from the window. “Is there anything else I should report?”

“No.” Sparda stands up and takes off the fake glasses which build his human character. When he faces Mundus, his eyes are gleaming of a dangerous golden light. “But you shouldn’t come here to me anymore, Mundus.” He pronounces his name slowly. “Unless it is for a very serious matter.” His voice is calm and cold.

“…I see.”

Mundus remains calm outside, he faces Sparda as he has always done, hiding within the frustration of not being taken into consideration. The only difference this time is that he is concealing the delicious victory he has longed for so much time that he has almost forgotten about it: Sparda is thinking about him as someone who poses a real influence in his life. That is enough to being with.

***

Vergil couldn’t tell when he exactly started masturbating while picturing Dante naked and eager of being groped all over, but it quickly became a habit which haunted him to his dreams. He was lucky that at some point Sparda decided they should have their own spaces and gave them two separated rooms, so he could chase his fantasies without the fear of awakening his brother.

More or less one year later, he pinned Dante on the ground after a spar and looking at his brother panting behind him gave Vergil a sudden erection. Blood rushed to his head so fast he felt numb, and he munched on Dante’s lips. That was the first of too many to count. At first, they just rubbed their groins against each other, or touched with trembling hands and breaths. First time they had sex, Dante sneaked into Vergil’s room and Vergil had to press a hand on his mouth, or Sparda would have heard his lascivious moans – had he known his brother was so eager of having a dick up his pussy, he would have done it so much time before.

Vergil suspected their father, even if he was demon, would despise what they do, so he does his best to keep it hidden. But fucking Dante in the woods, fingering him in the corridor or having him suck his dick under the dining room table, while challenging their luck was too exciting. Once one of the maids almost caught them, but they were quick enough to cover themselves with a blanket, so she believed they were just fighting like always and not that Vergil had his cock stuck up Dante’s pussy.

“Hey, Vergil…”

Dante isn’t sleeping yet. He is rubbing his head against Vergil’s chest, like a big cat. A comforting warm weight lying on him.

“What happens?”

“Lately dad looks distracted. Do you know why?”

“He may have his thoughts. When we were younger, we didn’t notice. That’s all.”

Dante grabbed Vergil’s right arm and put it around his shoulders. “He always looks like nothing can move him in any way, but sometimes he has these rides between his eyes.” He pointed between his eyes and then touched the same spot on Vergil’s face. “Like yours.” A small chuckle, Vergil kisses him on the lips.

“He’s never told us… he’s been keeping us hidden from the underworld, I know it.”

They are sixteen and learnt fast how to defend themselves. Yet, their father is still wary of what could happen if anyone from the underworld would know about them. Vergil doesn’t like it, because he feels he is strong enough to stand Sparda’s same ground, but their father still treats them like they were children. Then he thinks about possible political implications, creates hypothesis based on the few books about the underworld he managed to get his hands on, and doesn’t know if he should be angry with their father. On the other hand, when he thinks that Dante may be in danger, he gladly accepts Sparda’s decision.

“I think he is nervous about Mundus.”

Vergil stiffens hearing that name. Like an infectious disease, Mundus crawled through the intimate space Dante and Vergil created only for themselves and disturbed their harmony.

Dante smiled. “You don’t like him, do you?”

“And you like him?”

“Well, dad won’t get serious and use his demonic powers with us. Maybe Mundus will.” Dante looks pensive, he distractedly plays with Vergil’s hair. “You felt it, didn’t you? Last time he came dad was…”

“Mad.”

“Mh, yes, that too.”

Vergil wants to ask Dante what he means, but Dante straddles him, and he suddenly doesn’t think about their father or Mundus anymore.

***

There is a reason the Queen of Hell doesn’t try to bother Sparda and lets him act how he pleases, even if his rightful place is in the underworld. Sparda is strong, and nobody among sane demons dares stand against him – only Argosax tried one, and he still brings the signs of his shameful defeat.

Sparda’s sword pierced Mundus right into the stomach. It hurts. It has been a long while since the last time Mundus felt anything close to pain –close to _fear_ – but he bears the burden and looks back into the eyes that are killing him.

Dante is nearby somewhere, too scared to make a move. Sparda can barely sense his presence, too deep into his own demonic power fueled by his exploding rage. His wings are vibrating, his sword is feasting on Mundus’ blood. He jabs it deeper inside his body and makes him spurt blood from his mouth.

“Are you so scared, Sparda, of what your children are?”

Sparda sinks the blade to the hilt, enjoying each slight moan of pain he rips from Mundus.

“I told you to stay away.” His voice is an inhuman growl.

“From you. Not your children.” Mundus raises one hand. Sparda’s true form is so beautiful that he finds himself enchanted once again and touching it after all that time feels like a dream. “This is who you are. I thought you forgot.”

His children have a dirty blood. Yet, that dirt is what makes them special, what makes them strong. But what if Sparda doesn’t nurture them, what if he makes them perish like worthless humans? Almost impossible, because their demonic blood knows its value and it reacts and gives them power. Mundus doesn’t care about those children, they could die for what he cares. And if they die, Sparda would die as well.

Mundus hates Sparda, but he hates more the idea of him not being anywhere anymore.

“You cannot keep yourself concealed to your children forever, Sparda.” The blade dragged out of his body draws away more blood, suddenly replenished thanks to his regeneration. “You may have fucked a human, but she bore your demons.”

He is white, dirtied in his own red. Mundus only sees rage in Sparda’s eyes. That is probably the end of everything.

Dante and Vergil are together. Vergil is holding Dante close. They were talking right before they heard the knock on the door. Sparda can just imagine what they were talking about – or maybe he can’t, because probably he doesn’t understand his sons as he believed he did. He opened the door and found them close like they used to be when they were children and shared the same room. They’ve always been close, Sparda noticed it, and realized that as humans the bond they were building wasn’t good. Giving them separate rooms didn’t work; keeping an eye on them and making sure they were always busy in different things was useless. Sparda couldn’t stop them from chasing their demonic nature as well.

_ Ah, Eva. I failed. _

He did, but Dante and Vergil didn’t. They are always aiming at each other’s throat, their fights are violent, and they don’t hold back when blood runs – it is the opposite, blood ignites their fighting spirit, and they stop only when the last drop of energy is shed. Yet right now, Vergil, the same one who always complains about how his little brother is a bother, is tenderly holding Dante into his arms; looking at them in that moment, no one could tell they fight to death. Sparda feels like an intruder. He expected them to jolt away from each other, but, instead, Vergil holds Dante closer as if he is challenging their father to divide them.

“I wronged you both.” There is nothing he can say in his defense. “I didn’t want you two to follow your demonic heritage. I promised your mother I would have raised you as humans.”

“But we are not humans, father.” Vergil isn’t angry, but he has never spoken with such a cold voice to him. “We’ve known it since we were children.”

Sparda takes a deep slow breath. “Yes, you are right, Vergil.”

There are so many questions Vergil wants to make, Sparda can feel it. So, he doesn’t see Dante’s remark coming.

“You are angry at Mundus.” He straightens his back and gently gets free from Vergil’s arms. “Why?”

“…his presence here is not wanted anymore. He knows it, yet he keeps coming.”

Dante nods. He isn’t satisfied, that doesn’t sound like a proper reply, but he doesn’t ask anything more. “I want you to teach me how to use my demonic power, like you.”

“Dante–”

“I want it too, father.” Vergil stands up right after his brother. They approach Sparda, they don’t want to let him go until they settle it. “I can feel it twisting inside my guts whenever I fight with Dante. I know it is there, but still I can’t understand it. I do not want this power to devour me without knowing what to do.”

Sparda let them fight and that was his fatal error. Or maybe his sole mistake was making a promise he couldn’t fulfill to his dying wife: he couldn’t suppress his children’s true nature without them suffering. They slipped away from his control – even if Sparda has never put too much effort to eradicate whatever could trigger his sons’ blood: their fights, their relationship, their bond. He just couldn’t grow them apart. What an inevitable end.

“I guess it’s the same for you, Dante.”

Dante shrugs. “I guess.” He is more carefree than Vergil, but he saw the glimpse of admiration into his eyes when he saw Mundus. “I won’t force you.” He ignores Vergil’s perplexed glance. “But if you don’t do it, I’ll go look for the answer myself.”

Sparda knows that is a challenge he cannot win. “…okay.” He gives up. “We will start tomorrow.” Sooner or later, his children would reach that point in their life, when they start questioning their nature and demand to know more. Sparda hoped it would be as late as possible, but he just wanted to ignore that Dante and Vergil have been exploring their double nature their whole life. If letting them become demons would make sure their children won’t be hurt nor leave his side, so be it.

Unexpectedly, Vergil as well throws himself in a strong hug. He is mature, but he is still a teenager after all. Sparda holds them tight against his chest.

_ I am so sorry, Eva. _

***

The first time ever that Sparda called for Mundus. Usually it was Mundus, under the Queen’s order, who chased Sparda among the humans he pretended to love to bring him the message. When Griffon reported Sparda’s words, Mundus was tempted to remain in Mallet Island and see if another invitation would urge the previous one. But the message was one of those he could not fully ignore, because, if true, his head would fall by the very hand of the Queen.

“What happened to the key?”

It is night, Sparda is still wearing his human mask.

“Nothing.” He gets up from the armchair, the key in his hand. “I destroyed the barrier.”

The palm is open in front of him. Mundus ignores the gleaming red glimmering from the gems.

“Are you insane?”

“I wanted to check something. Cast the same one again.”

“I am not your–”

“Didn’t the Queen ask to keep this safe?”

Mundus doesn’t understand why Sparda would do something like that, if not for the sole reason of dragging him there and talk. Unless Sparda didn’t trust his skills and he never did. That thought hurts more than Mundus wants to.

“…alright.” He exhales. “But next time you’ll break it for no reason–”

“You’ll come here.” Sparda smiles, fake and cold. “Each time I call, you will obediently come here.”

“You–”

Sparda is stronger than him. No matter how much blood Mundus spilt, how many hours he spent studying his own power, how much efforts he wasted to grow stronger: compared to the Dark Knight, he is weak. It takes Sparda a little to slam him against the wall, and Mundus cannot stop him even if he saw his movements.

“You will, Mundus. I know you will.” The clench on his throat gets stronger, and his clothes fall on the floor. “We used to do this a lot when we were younger.”

“And what makes you think I want to do it again?” Ah, his voice betrayed him. “I won’t take the place of–”

“You cannot take her place.” There’s a small pause after each word. “You can’t give me what she has given me.” Sparda chuckles, he is mocking him with a soft smile.

If only Sparda cut his limbs, tore his chest, opened his head and carved his insides, it would hurt less. Mundus hates how he feels hot where Sparda touches him, how his own body doesn’t follow his commands anymore but has bent to Sparda’s will. If only among the pleasure it hurt somehow, Mundus could hate himself a little less.

There is no bed, no personal space he can enter in. When Sparda is done, he leaves Mundus alone to complete the task he was called for. He isn’t a threat to his life, nor to that of his children. He isn’t an important milestone in his path, nor someone who could ever influence his existence. Nothing has changed during all those centuries, after all: Sparda always acts as he pleases, Mundus is still nothing more than a casualty in his life.

When Mundus leaves, Sparda doesn’t notice.

In the suffocating dark silence of his castle in Mallet Island, Mundus cries his rage and suffering. He is alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Who ordered a bitter depresso?


End file.
